


The Adventure Of The Opal Tiara (1878)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [17]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Theft, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 14:42:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Case 11: One of four people must be guilty of a theft - yet none of them had the stolen object on them when searched! Sherlock shows that technology, like most things, can be used by criminals in strange new ways, and Watson has a minor panic attack when the two are set to lose their home.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [manifestingwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manifestingwings/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the theft of Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara'.

It was September of eighteen hundred and seventy-eight. I had at last officially become a doctor, my final essay having been submitted and passed a few months earlier. It was a cool late summer's day and I had the afternoon off, which was fortunate as I could join the crowds on the banks of the mighty River Thames. After much effort, both physical and diplomatic, a giant ancient obelisk from Egypt was this day finally being unveiled to public view. In typical London fashion it had been nicknamed 'Cleopatra's Needle', even though it dated from centuries before that famous queen. I despaired of my fellow citizens at time, but then again, it had taken nearly six decades to get the thing here, so I supposed that I would have to grant them some leeway.

Some ancient Egyptian queen's 'Needle' might be safe in its home, but as I found out a few short hours later, I very soon might not be.

+~+~+

“We have a problem”, Holmes announced gravely over dinner that evening.

“Another case?” I asked hopefully. Since the Ricoletti case, Holmes had been involved in a number of minor cases, but none of them had been very interesting. And one particularly aggressive female had all but propositioned him whilst pressing him – physically as well as literally – to take her case. Some 'ladies' these days had no morals at all!

“More serious than that”, he said. “We are about to be made homeless.”

“What?” I exclaimed in horror.

“Mrs. MacAndrew suffered a fall coming up the stairs this morning, shortly after you left”, he explained. “Naturally I took her to the hospital, but the doctor says that she needs complete rest and relaxation for several months, and she has decided to go and live with her sister in Scotland to achieve this. Hence she is selling this house, which means that we probably need to find somewhere else to live. The new owner may wish to keep us on, but we cannot be sure of that.”

My heart sank. I had come to value my odd little friend, but in my heart of hearts I had known that someone as rich and charming as he would surely soon be looking to find a nice girl and settle down somewhere to raise a family......

“I looked in the newspaper once I came back”, he went on, thankfully unaware of my silent panic attack, “and a Mrs. Hall who has a house in in Cramer Street is offering rooms to let at a reasonable rate. It is still close to your surgery, though not quite as much as here.”

That was surprisingly considerate, I thought. And he wanted us to remain together. My heartbeat began to return to normal.

“I do not know the road”, I said, calming down a little.

“It is off Thayer Street, less than half a mile from your famous – or infamous – Harley Street”, he said. “I went round today to take a preliminary look at the place. The rooms are similar to the ones we have here, and the area is pleasant enough. The only problem is that Mrs. Hall is planning to emigrate to the United States five years from now – it is all arranged - so she will definitely be selling the house at that time. But the rooms are good, and bearing in mind the urgency of our situation, it would do for now.”

He looked at me earnestly, and I was quietly touched that this amazingly clever man actually valued me as a friend. Though having, as Sammy had once said, the emotional capacity of a shoe box, I could not think of a way of expressing my gratitude. Thus I simply nodded.

“I know that you are free this Saturday”, he said, “so I told Mrs. Hall that we would be round to view the rooms then, and let her know our decision straight away. I hope that is acceptable?”

“That sounds very good”, I said. 

He nodded, and resumed his dinner. I supposed that at least I would not miss the maid service here. All the dust they left in our room made my eyes water at times.

+~+~+

Mrs. Evadne Hall was, on first sight, somewhat frightening. In fact, I retract the 'somewhat'. She was a large lady, and her excessive use of lavender water – it was like walking into a wall of scent - literally made my eyes run when I entered the house (it must have been worse for Holmes, I only later realized, as he was mildly allergic to the horrible stuff). Fortunately, as things turned out, she owned two houses and lived in the other one, the Cramer Street property being run by her sister, Miss Letitia Hellingly. The latter lady was shorter, more refined and, mercifully, about ninety-eight per cent less pungent! Mrs. Hall was also eyeing up Holmes in a way that was quite unbecoming, I thought; she may have been a widow, but she was at least ten years older than him! Fortunately the rooms and terms both proved adequate and, on the (unspoken) understanding that we would see - and smell! - precious little of her, I agreed to the move.

Although I was supposed to have had the day off that day, it was just my luck that the surgery was called by a patient at the other end of Cramer Street, and since they knew that I would be there, they sent me a telegram asking me to call in when I could. Holmes headed back to Montague Street, whilst I went to Number 13A. Unlucky for some, I thought as I knocked at the door.

I was with Miss Ophelia Mayberry for under a minute before I concluded that the only thing she was suffering from was, like too many of my rich patients, an advanced case of hypochondria. Worse, she was also quite clearly desperate for a man – any man - and I had had the bad luck to be here. Most patients exhibited at least some unease if I suggested a physical examination; she looked put out when I said one was not needed (even if it had been, I would probably have lied!). I did check her heartbeat, but she edged herself far too close to me in the process, and her perfume was overpowering!

Of course, Holmes knew; I suppose it was the perfume that wafted off me as I re-entered our rooms. I set a bath running, and went to get changed, but he intercepted me. 

“Who was she?” he asked curiously.

“One of my patients, who wanted her physical examination to be a little too physical”, I said testily. I was looking forward to my long hot soak, and getting the scent of whatever it was – violets, I think – of Miss Mayberry off of me. 

He continued to look hard at me, then his expression softened. 

“Would you like some of my bath salts?” he asked.

That was.... surprisingly considerate. Not that Holmes could not be generous (indeed, I would soon find out just how much I had underestimated him in this department), but he rarely seemed to exhibit affection towards anyone. Indeed, it was that coolness even with myself that had led me to fear the worst over the coming change of address. And his bath salts would hopefully be pungent enough to remove the stench of the desperate housewife from me. I smiled at him.

“Thank you”, I said as I went into the bathroom.

+~+~+

We were to make the shift to Cramer Street in three weeks' time – Mrs. MacAndrew's cousin from three doors down, her fellow Scotswoman Mrs. Ferguson, was running the house for her during this time - and the main room would need a major tidying. Holmes' side of it reminded me of the first sight of his rooms with Stamford back in Oxford. I smiled at the memory.

“What about your papers?” I ventured. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I have never got round to organizing them”, he said plaintively. “I suppose I should, really.”

“It might help in future cases?” I suggested.

He looked pointedly across at my own desk, which was markedly neat and tidy, and smiled somewhat. I have no idea why I said what I did next, but it was neither the first nor the last time that my mouth would leave the station whilst my brain was still waiting in line to buy a ticket.

“I could order it for you?” I offered. “Unless, of course, there are things....”

“Watson?” he said softly. 

“Yes?” 

“Of course I trust you.”

I blushed fiercely. If I were honest, I would have admitted that the prospect of seeing the many small cases I knew he undertook on his own was intriguing, but I also enjoyed cataloguing things in general, and knew that I could make some semblance of order out of the disaster area on the other side of the room. 

+~+~+

By that evening, I was wondering if I had bitten off more than I could chew. On my instructions, Holmes had gone out and purchases a number of large notebooks in which I intended to alphabetically categorize the people involved in the cases, and had then left when a message had arrived from his friend Henriksen. I wondered if it was another case.

My questions were answered when Holmes returned that evening with a warm apple-pie from my favourite pastry shop, and some custard that Mrs. Ferguson had whipped up for him. The man was a saint!

“Sergeant Henriksen wished to consult me over the disappearance of Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara”, he explained, once we had finished eating. 

I sighed, feeling wonderfully full. And there was still a slice for later, Holmes having very generously settled for just the custard. I was definitely keeping him!

“She is the sister of the Duchess of Montfort?” I said.

“I see that you are still not reading the social pages in the morning!” he teased. 

I decided that I did not like him that much after all. A gentleman was entitled to a range of interests, damnation!

“How did she lose her tiara?” I asked.

“It is all very strange”, he said. “She travelled down with her husband from Argyll-shire two days ago. She took the afternoon train from Lachlan Hall Halt, a private station serving her sister's Lowland residence, through to Glasgow, and thence the night sleeper to London. She definitely had the tiara on boarding the train at Glasgow, as she wore it to the dining coach.”

“Show-off!” I muttered. Holmes smiled at my remark.

“Her compartment was locked whilst she was in the dining-car”, he explained. “She returned to her coach, and turned in for the night. The following morning the maid woke her an hour prior to their arrival at Euston and she checked on her tiara, only to find it gone.”

“Did the train stop anywhere?” I asked.

“Unusually, no”, he said. “It was a Caledonian Railway train, and the London and North Western, over whose metals much of the journey was accomplished, has lately fitted water-troughs so that locomotives can travel non-stop. The train did slow to forty miles per hour for them, and down to approximately twenty miles per hour for a stretch around Watford due presumably to a signal, but did not stop.”

“So how could the tiara be stolen?” I asked. “I assume that everyone was searched at Euston?”

“Mr. Farintosh demanded it”, Holmes said. “Mr. Miles Buttermere, one of the railway's longest-serving employees, had visited her in her coach after dinner and checked if it was acceptable to lock everything up, or of she needed to send to the dining coach for anything. She acceded, and then went to bed. The tiara was definitely in her possession at that time. Equally definitely, it was not there eight hours later.”

“Mr. Buttermere could have done it”, I ventured. Holmes shook his head.

“He locked the carriage when Mrs. Farintosh left”, he said, “then went to attend to the other first-class passengers, in the carriage on the other side of the dining-car. He did not return until he was sent for, to allow them back into their own carriage.”

“So that leaves only the people in her coach”, I said.

Holmes nodded. 

“The coach only has one large compartment for passengers and two smaller ones for servants”, he said. “There is no way anyone could have accessed that coach during the journey, and yet indubitably the tiara was stolen. Hence a ring is drawn around Mrs. Cecily Farintosh, her husband Joseph, her maid Alice Bailey and her husband's valet Mr. Brian Lingard.”

“The husband?” I asked tentatively.

“Joseph Farintosh is fifty-one, an under-secretary in Her Majesty's government”, Holmes said. “Unfortunately, he has a predilection for gambling. His brother-in-law has already had to step in to clear his debts on at least one occasion.”

“Motive”, I said. “And opportunity.”

“On the other hand, it was he who was insistent about the police searching all three of them at Euston.”

I had a thought.

“What about Mrs. Farintosh herself?” I asked. “Was the tiara insured?”

Holmes gave me that Look of his, as if I were a dog that had just performed a particularly difficult trick. I would have been insulted, but I rather valued those looks of praise, if only because they were so rare.

“A good point”, he said, “which is one reason that Henriksen is involved. Mr. Joseph Farintosh had taken out an insurance policy on it only last month, to the value of five thousand pounds!”

My eyes widened. That was a lot of... motive.

“The maid?” I asked.

“A girl of good character, so her mistress claims”, Holmes said. “Alice Bailey, twenty-seven; she has been with her for three years. She would seem to have no motive, unless she were working with someone else.”

“The valet?” I asked.

“We are on shakier ground there”, Holmes said. “Mr. Brian Lingard, thirty-six, and has spent time in jail. His family is loosely connected to the Farintoshes through a marriage some decades back, and Mr. Farintosh gave him his current post about twelve months ago. He has performed satisfactorily, Mr. Farintosh told the police, although there was a small matter of some gold cuff-links going missing some months back. They were never recovered.”

“It is a big jump from cuff-links to a tiara”, I observed. “The problem seems to be one of opportunity. I mean, it is not as if one of them just threw the thing out of the window, is it?”

Holmes gave me the Look again, though this time I had not the slightest idea what I had said to earn it.

“I think that we should send Henriksen a telegram”, he smiled. “Sometimes, Watson, you amaze me!”

Chuckling, he left the room. I stared after him in wonder.

+~+~+

Two days later, I was standing along with Holmes and Sergeant Henriksen in one of the sidings of the London and North Western Railway company at Euston. Before us was the infamous sleeper carriage. Henriksen showed us inside.

“On Mr. Farintosh's orders, we went through the place from top to bottom, sir”, he said. “Even checked for secret compartments and the like.”

I smiled at that. Holmes seemed intent on examining the area around the windows in the three compartments. 

“Did you find out the information I requested?” he asked. Henriksen took out a notebook. 

“Of the four people in the coach that night, only Mr. and Mrs. Farintosh undertook journeys in the previous month”, he recited. “They stayed at a friend's house in London; Miss Bailey and Mr. Lingard were already at Lachlan Hall.”

“Mr. Farintosh did not have his valet?” I asked, surprised. Maids were one thing, but using another man's valet was.... well, odd.

“It was Mr. Lingard's week off”, Henriksen explained, “and Miss Bailey's grandmother, who lives near the Hall, was ill, so her mistress allowed her to remain there for the duration. The Argyll-shire Police visited Lachlan Hall for me, and reported that as a mistress, Mrs. Farintosh was seen as hard but fair, whilst none of them thought much of her husband. I understand the Farintoshes were only in London for two weeks, which may be why they – or more likely Mrs. Farintosh – felt they would cope. They returned to Scotland on the fifth.”

“Together?” Holmes asked. Henriksen looked puzzled. 

“I do not see what....”

“Were they together?” Holmes pressed. 

“No”, he said. “Mrs. Farintosh went to see a friend in West Suffolk – Newmarket - whilst Mr. Farintosh visited an acquaintance of his in Blackpool.”

Holmes smiled knowingly.

“Blackpool is accessed by a branch-line from the town of Preston, I believe?”

Henriksen stared at him in confusion

“Yes”, he said at last. “My wife and I went there on our holiday last year.”

(As an aside, I will mention something here that Holmes only admitted to me some years later. Policemen at the time were, quite rightly, paid bonuses for solving particularly important crimes, and Henriksen had been due a bonus for one such he had assisted in whilst on secondment to another station. The inspector there however, a nasty piece of work called Childs, deliberately left Henriksen's name off those so entitled. Our police friend was not inclined to 'rock the boat', but fortunately Holmes was, and Henriksen got his bonus. Inspector Childs was, many years later, demoted after being caught out committing fraud - again, because of the efforts of my friend).

Holmes thought for a moment. 

“I need to see outside the coach”, he said.

“Outside?” I asked, puzzled.

“Yes”, he insisted. “Come!”

He led the way, and we were soon outside the compartment. There was a raised plank walkway to enable people to, presumably, clean the coach windows, and Holmes sprang easily up onto it. He stared around the two window frames, then smiled.

“The case is nearly complete”, he said, to my amazement. “Henriksen, did you bring in Mr. Lingard as I asked?”

“I did, sir. Is he....?”

“We have a short stop that we need to make before we speak to him”, Holmes said. “So let us not keep him waiting!”

He led the way out of the siding. Henriksen looked at me with an expression of frustration, one which I all too readily shared.

And why we stopped at a hardware shop on the way and Holmes purchased a single bamboo cane, I could not begin to imagine.

+~+~+

“Mr. Lingard!”

Holmes smacked the cane down on the desk in front of the valet. I had thought that he looked pale already, but for some reason the sight of that piece of wood made him turn a whole new shade of white. 

“Sir, please, I beg of you!”

Holmes took out a notebook and pencil, and slid them across to him.

“All is known”, he said firmly. “Your only hope of avoiding a return to jail is to write the address – you know the one to which I refer – in that book, within the next sixty seconds.”

“I... I cannot....”

Holmes' face softened.

“If you do”, he said, much more quietly, “I give you my word as a gentleman that I will do what I can for you. But only if you help me first.”

I could see the moment when the man broke. His hands shaking, he somehow managed to write something in the book provided. Holmes took it and ushered us all out of the room.

“Sergeant, get a warrant, then take as many men as you can to this address, and search it from top to bottom”, he said. “With luck, you will not have to look too hard. My belief is that the person there will not be expecting to have their house searched, and will not have hidden the object that recently came into their possession.”

“What is that, sir?” Henriksen asked, clearly confused.

“Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara!”

+~+~+

Only a couple of hours later, the police station had an important visitor. I have to say that I rather liked Mrs. Joseph Farintosh. Though I did see her at her best, when she entered the interview room and the first thing she saw was her opal tiara on the table.

“You have found it!” she boomed. “That is wonderful!”

“Thanks to this gentleman”, Henriksen said gruffly. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Then you shall most definitely have the reward I was going to offer!” she declared. “I am so happy!”

Holmes escorted her to a chair, and I sensed that he did not share our visitor's happiness. Something was wrong.

“There is, my lady, still the matter of _how_ the tiara was taken, and by whom”, he reminded her.

Her face darkened.

“I am sure that it was not my dear Alice!” she declared stoutly.

“Your maid is quite innocent”, Holmes reassured her. 

She smiled.

“Unlike your husband”, he added. 

That got rid of the smile.

“Impossible!” she declared. “Why, the policemen at Euston searched all of them thoroughly, Joseph included.” She suddenly paled. “You do not think that I.....”

“Madam, I am sure of your innocence”, Holmes said firmly. “Unhappily, I am equally sure of your husband's guilt.”

“I do not see how he could have done it”, I pointed out.

Holmes took the chair next to the lady.

“This was an ingenious crime”, he said, “and had it not been for the good doctor here, I might not have realized just how it had been accomplished.”

“Me?” I exclaimed. He nodded.

“When we were discussing the case”, he said, “your exact words were, 'it is not as if one of them just threw the thing out of the window'.”

“From a moving train?” Henriksen said incredulously. “Do you mean that he had someone waiting by the side of the line?”

“In the pitch dark, and on a train which, if it were just a few minutes off schedule, could be miles north or south of a fixed point?” Holmes chuckled. “No. He was cleverer than that. Do you remember how he visited Blackpool, shortly prior to the theft?”

We all nodded, though I could not for the life of me see how that Lancashire resort would have anything to do with this.

“One of the wonders of our age”, Holmes said, “is the travelling post office. Using a system of hooks and nets, bags can be brought onto the train and taken off without stopping.”

I finally began to see. 

“Your husband familiarized himself with the system”, Holmes explained to a stunned Mrs. Farintosh, “and how the night sleeper always exchanged bags at Preston Station, the junction for Blackpool as well as lines across to other Lancashire towns. He coerced his valet into obtaining the tiara, placed it in a parcel that he had prepared earlier, and at the appropriate time hung it out of the window on a bamboo cane hook. When the station staff at Preston came to collect the bags, they would not think it overly odd that one parcel had somehow slipped out.”

I suddenly remembered.

“The marks on the coach!” I exclaimed.

“Yes”, Holmes said. “I had hoped there might be a small splinter of wood inside the coach, but your husband cleaned the area well. However, the slash of the breaking bamboo cane left a scratch mark on the outside of the coach, exactly where I knew to look for it.”

“So my own husband stole from me!” Mrs. Farintosh said heavily.

“I am sorry”, Holmes said sincerely. “He posted it to an old servant of his who, fortunately, lived in London. I obtained the address from Mr. Lingard earlier today, which is how you now have your tiara back. May I be so bold as to ask a favour?”

“Of course!” she said. “Anything!”

“Please can you provide a reference for Mr. Lingard?” Holmes asked, sounding almost humble. “I know that he played his part in this, but he was coerced, and I would like for this not to ruin the rest of his life.”

She smiled at him.

“I am so grateful for all you did”, she said. “Yes. I shall provide you such a reference. I shall be staying at my sister's London house in Grosvenor Square if I am needed again, sergeant.”

“I am afraid that we shall have to keep the tiara for evidence, at least until Mr. Farintosh confesses”, Henriksen said. “But I promise you, we shall return it as soon as possible.”

“I know it is safe”, she smiled. “That is enough for me.”

We all bowed as she stood up, and sailed majestically from the room. Henriksen scratched his bald head.

“Why a bamboo cane?” he asked. “Surely he knew that it could break?”

Holmes nodded.

“He counted on it”, he said. “There was the danger that, in breaking, the rod used might smash against the window of the coach. If the wood had been too strong, it might well have broken that window, impacting it at a speed of several dozen miles per hour.”

“Oh”, he said. “I see. Well, I'd better get round to Mr. Farintosh. Don't want to keep a gentleman waiting!”

He left, and we followed him.

+~+~+

It will doubtless come as no surprise to the reader that Mrs. Farintosh immediately sued for divorce from her husband which, unusual as it was in those days, was quickly granted. Mr. Joseph Farintosh served a decade of hard labour for his crime, and upon his release had the decency to take himself off to southern Africa, from where he was never heard of again. It will also doubtless not surprise the reader that Holmes was as good as his word, and two months later Mr. Brian Lingard had a new post as footman in one of London's top clubs, where he did very well for himself.

+~+~+

Thus concluded my first two wonderful years with Holmes. A new home together would soon be ours, and our first case there would involve a murderer who killed because they did not get their own way....


End file.
